


Merry Christmas, Neil Josten

by conniptionns



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Christmas Party, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 15:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17185889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conniptionns/pseuds/conniptionns
Summary: Allison gives him a smile that has Neil scooting back in his seat. “I want a Neil Josten Christmas.”





	Merry Christmas, Neil Josten

**Author's Note:**

> I originally posted this Christmas Eve, but I was really insecure that it was a flop :P No one was on, I was being silly. Anyway, this wouldn't be possible without my baby @exybee. This was her brainchild that she was kind enough to give to me. I can only hope that I've done it justice. I know her name isn't on it, but I hope you'll consider reading it anyway! I know she's like God Tier at fic ;)
> 
> In other news, two of my poems are going to be published!

Neil’s sprawled on top of a pile of twigs, moldering leaves and a fine dusting of snow, catching his breath. It’s the weekend before Christmas and, somehow, Neil’s in charge of planning this year’s Christmas party, so he’s obviously not working on it.

To yard work, or not to work. His and Andrew’s rakes, abandoned long ago, are strewn across their lawn. Wet golds and dark browns spill from garbage bags, tossed aside in the wake of their leaf fight. There isn’t enough snow for an all-out brawl, yet, but the grass does crunch noisily under their boots.

If he asked himself how this could have happened—the party planning—it could be traced back to Allison. She was the source of every horrible idea Neil ever has. The idea that he could successfully throw a party? Ridiculous. An accident, really.  He had met with her for their monthly brunch date, somewhere entirely too posh for his taste, but a mimosa was a mimosa was a mimosa, and they were day drunk.

“I never know what to give him for Christmas and birthdays, because it’s rare he ever mentions anything he wants,” Neil said, conspiratorial.

“Throw him a party he won’t forget,” she said, gesturing before taking a dainty swig of her mimosa. Dainty because it was Allison, really she slung the glass back in one swallow. She was a Fox after all.

Neil frowned, sipping some water to clear his head. They were an untold amount of mimosas deep. The waiter kept taking empty glasses away, so Neil couldn’t keep count. “I think that might be the exact opposite of what Andrew would want.”

“Did I say, Andrew? Silly me,” she said, coy. “I meant me. It’s what I want.”

That threw him for a loop. “Why wouldn’t you just throw a party then?”

“Oh.” She waved a hand through that idea. “I’ve done it all. God knows my parents have done it all.” She gives him a smile that has Neil scooting back in his seat. “I want a Neil Josten Christmas.”

Now, Andrew is slumped next to him, having given up after one too many tackles, in favor of playing Candy Crush on his phone.

Yard work is not happening today.

The sky is a dusty gray and light flits between the soft gaps in the clouds, a dense halo above them. He is content in the winter wind. A startling development, since the seasons tripping headlong into winter usually meant less food and huddling for warmth in shitty hotels, but he’s actually happy to sit, for once, and take in the damp, earthy air. Andrew has everything to do with it.

His cheap flannel is scratchy against Neil’s wrist, and he leans into him as the wind cuts right through them.

The tree they’re sat under is low enough to provide a decent amount of cover from the bleak December flurries. Neil spares a thought toward the kettle, a bright copper thing sitting on their stove, but with Andrew’s head inching closer and closer to his shoulder and the heaviness in his legs, Neil can’t fathom ever moving again.

He’s never planned a Christmas party, but what gets him, is he wants to. He wants it to be good.

Andrew doesn’t care enough to lend a hand, but the dry suggestion that Neil google it was heeded on a borrowed smartphone between commercial breaks in the  _ 25 Days of Christmas  _ marathon.

He taps his boot against Andrew’s. “I should probably go to the store, right?”

Wikihow had so many steps and Neil thought most of them were unimportant. “Start three months in advance.” Try four days before. The one that seems the most important is to prepare the food.

Except, Neil’s shit in the kitchen and Andrew doesn’t care,  _ ad infinitum _ .

A one-armed shrug is Andrew’s only acknowledgment before he goes back to his game. Neil settles back into the moment, contemplative.

There’s not much he remembers about Christmas. He’s not counting the farce from his childhood, but in the years after Palmetto, he’s been to countless holiday parties the Foxes had thrown. The thing is, he only recalls excessive amounts of alcohol and sugar—a bad (but fun!) combination.

Oh, and baby Jesus.

Maybe he should start there. Where the hell can he find baby Jesus?

Neil presses down on his thighs, hands red from the cold, and pushes himself to stand. He considers the dirt, the takes, the disemboweled bags of leaves, and ignores them all in favor of offering Andrew a hand up.

Andrew doesn’t take it.

Stomach rumbling, Neil has food on the brain. There’s a pumpkin soup inside that Andrew had put on that morning, probably simmering away in mouthwatering spices, ready to be eaten. When Andrew deigns to cook it’s usually great.

“If pumpkin is the fall gourd, what’s the winter gourd?”

Andrew’s only response is a raised eyebrow. Neil shrugs. “I assume it’s also not a practical squash?”

“You—” Andrew cuts himself off, locks his phone and shoves it into his back pocket.

Neil pulls out his list. “We could go to the grocery store, the liquor store, get decorations, and then, of course, the baby Jesus store.”

Surprisingly, Andrew stands up and brushes stray leaves from his jeans.

To Neil’s questioning look, he says, “I have to see how badly you fuck this up.”

***

They bustle into the house and hold their hands over an ancient radiator that blows a skinny stream of heat over frozen fingers, burning wrists; Neil rubs his hands together to encourage blood flow and ignores the prickly sensation that shoots through his fingers. Andrew sticks cold hands on Neil’s lower back; Neil squawks and darts out of the way before heading into their room to change into dry clothes.

Of course, it’s Andrew’s clothes that are the warmest, so Neil delves into the other side of the dresser for the more sensible winter clothes. He pulls on black jeans that are two sizes too big, threads a belt through the loops to hold them up and pulls on a black henley that’s faded blue from the wash and is soft orange in splotches from bleach. Andrew comes in from taking care of his soup and pinches Neil’s bare hip where the jeans are already falling down. Neil snaps his teeth at him in retribution and yanks the jeans back into place on his slim hips.

The catch-all drawer is a Mary Poppins-like place of wonder where Neil can never find his fucking keys. Andrew pulls a beanie over his curls and throws another at Neil’s middle.

“Is this a ‘you’ll catch your death’ threat?” Neil asks with a smile.

Andrew just shrugs and swipes at his nose. He holds out the keys to Matt’s hand-me-down truck, whatever shit they buy won’t fit in the truck of the Maz. Neil snags the keys and presses a kiss against wind-chapped lips and heads outside.

“I’ll drive!”

“No shit, I gave you the keys, Junkie.”

Stale heat and the scent of waxy produce greet them as they walk into the store. Andrew heads for the beer and leaves Neil to pick out a cart with the least wobbly wheel and use one of the wipes on the handlebar, while he tries not to imagine a baby sneezing on it.

He meanders down the frozen aisle and swivels from side-to-side, trying to find packaging that looks familiar to him. A yellow beacon calls to him as he recognizes something from Nicky’s fridge. Pizza rolls shouldn’t be considered food, but he guesses they’re edible and tosses two big bags in the cart anyway.

Andrew returns, and if he has a problem with Neil’s meal selection, he doesn’t say. Instead, he dumps two excessively large cases of watery beer into the cart and pushes the rest aside before climbing in himself.

And so, Neil pushes his rolls, Michelob and Andrew down the dairy aisle, mind wandering to their shopping list. He catches Andrew eyeing a package of cookies with little trees etched on the front.

“Trees,” Neil says, emphatic, holding them up. Nothing says  Christmas like trees, right?

Andrew stares him down for a beat but ends up snatching them out of his hands and stacking six more on his lap.

Always happy to humor Andrew, Neil gets a running start before he jumps on the metal bar and glides down the aisle toward the front. They check out, cart filled to the brim with cookies and candy. Andrew pulls out his card and Neil hip checks him out of the way, swiping his card before Andrew gets a chance. It’s a game that they play whenever they’re out. Who can pay first?

They pay and Neil offers to put everything into the truck while Andrew heads to the liquor store on the other side of the parking lot.

After tucking his boxes of pizza snacks and cookies away, he considers starting up the truck and waiting in the heat, but decides to pull his hat down over his ears and head inside to stand with Andrew. The heat the other man gives him is hotter than the ancient truck anyway.

He walks inside to see Andrew with a cart filled with bottles of wine and liquor.

“I didn’t know you could get a cart?” Neil asks.

“You can’t. This is everything that’s on clearance. It was by the door.”

“That seems...unnecessary,” Neil says and walks to stand by Andrew who is considering different colored bottles of Kinky.

He grabs the Aloha. “You’re entirely unnecessary,” he says with a shrug. “And yet…”

Neil huffs a short breath out his nose and rolls his eyes. He grabs two bottles of Fireball. If baby Jesus is a wash, at least they’ll have apple cider with Fireball.

Andrew rolls up to the counter to the shock of the old man behind the cash register. Neil can’t help but think the man should expect this sort of behavior from Andrew by now.

“Those are for clearance,” he says, voice rising with a question at the end.

“I know, cheap liquor,” he says by way of explanation. “We’ll take it all,” he sets a bottle of Kinky Aloha next to Neil’s Fireball. “And this.”

It’s a beat before the man can respond. “Uh, I’ll need to see some ID.”

Neil pulls out an ID from his back pocket, slightly warped from sitting on it. The man considers it and his whiskers twitch when he recognizes Neil’s name.

“All right, Mr. Josten,” he says and starts manually punching in prices.

“Should I Venmo everyone?” Andrew asks.

“We should be able to cover it. How much cash do you have? You know they’ll freeze the card if they see this purchase,” Neil says.

Andrew pulls out a single quarter. “This should help.”

Neil rolls his eyes and starts pulling out all the money he has from various pockets all over his person. It takes a ridiculously long time and the man behind the counter gets more confused as each moment passes.

The ride to get a tree is a quiet one. Andrew plays Candy Crush on his phone and pretends to be wounded over the loss of his quarter—it was a Louisiana quarter.

**Author's Note:**

> Comment & kudo! @conniptionns on tumblr


End file.
